The crownless again shall be king
by Cheresy
Summary: After the Fall, Sherlock Holmes is left searching for revenge. Years pass and as more Moriarty's men perish by Sherlock's hand, the detective isn't far from changing beyond recognition. Moriarty is revealed to be alive and the fight for redemption begins. Both masterminds want to reclaim their statuses. Who will come out of this fight for the throne alive, if anyone at all?
1. To Kill the Tiger

**Author's note:** Hey, lovely readers! This is my first published fic EVER, please give me feedback! Not certain if I will ever completely finish this because of school. Bear with me, this will get a bit better as it progresses. Rating WILL turn to M later! Please enjoy!  
**Warning**: random people being killed, nbd

Chapter 1 – Killing The Tiger

The streets of downtown Moscow smelled like the damp autumn night air and filth. It was not a place where one would imagine to find two neatly suited gentlemen, standing face to face in a dark dirty alley. Still, there they stood, their voices lowered to quick whispers on god knows what topic. As fuelled as their conversation seemed, neither appeared to make a move to physically assault the other. In fact, they almost looked like friends discussing an exciting football game. That definitely proved not to be the case as one of them suddenly pulled a revolver and pointed it at his companion. The man being held at gunpoint growled something in Russian, gesticulating frantically. Both men froze when heavy steps made their way into the alley.

The two men stood, dumbfounded. The figure approaching them stopped thirty feet away , pulled a cigarette and placed it on his lips. Surprisingly, the stranger didn't reach for a lighter, just held the cigarette between two fingers… and blew. A moment later, the man with the pistol fell to the ground, trashing around in a fit of cramps before going still. Faint light from the street outlined a small dart sticking out of his neck. Delicate and lethal, as mesmerizing as a murder weapon can get.

The stranger pocketed his blowgun again and shined a flashlight over the man still standing. In light, he was revealed to be short and stout. „Dear me, where did you pop out from?!" he panted. He was in his fifties, almost bald, little anxious pig eyes shining in his round face. „I thought I was a goner," breath hitched, his lungs were striking again. Not much of a threat, considering his prosthetic knee and lung cancer. Could never outrun anyone, barely exercised, a puppet for the Mafia he was, more used to manipulating people, hiring assassins and poisoning drinks. „What are you doing here, Dmitri?" he asked, turning to the stranger. Stupid questions, probably has developing dementia. Not a threat at all. At least not for Sherlock Holmes.

„You know, I didn't expect to see you here," the plump man said as he and the detective walked down a street, away from the crime scene, „I thought I told you to stay away from my private meeting, you curious kid! Guests should listen to their hosts, no?" his eyes flickered over the tall grim looking man trying to fall into step beside him. „You nearly got killed during that meeting," the Brit spoke, breath visible in the air. „Ah, bankers like me usually get into trouble now and then," the russian replied, a secretive edge to his voice. The man let out a squeal as the detective came to an abrupt stop, strong gloved hands forcing the man against the nearest house wall. „Now, Aleksei," Sherlock hissed, addressing the fat lying man by his real name, „It took me less than five minutes to figure out who you worked for when you took me in for the week." The fat little man shook with fear and struggled under Sherlock's steel grip. „How do I know you work for the Mafia, you want to ask me," Sherlock kept the conversation alive, „Obvious! The cigars you smoke – bought from underground markets, the traces of cocaine on your work shoes, the crest on your ashtray! Any idiot could have deduced that!" The detective's voice turned into a snarl as he continued: „I wanted to finish you off days ago, but guess who's your appointed bodyguard? Sebastian, that's who! A birdy read your mail this morning and told me you were having an appointment with him. I thought to follow you and kill you both, but this bloody idiot that I wasted a dart on got to you first. Got smugglers on your tail, huh? Now, we both know he would have turned you into a doorknob and Sebastian would have vanished like tin into ashes. Moran's waiting for you though, isn't he. Where are you meeting?" Sherlock gave the man a punch across the face for good measure. „_Where?!_" „S-south p-p-port, warehouse number six, s-southmost one," he spluttered, grabbing at Sherlock's hands, but the detective wouldn't yield. „Thank you, very co-operative for a drug dealer," Sherlock coldly replied. „Dmitri, you don't have to do this, please, I'll let your boss pay you tenfold, I-„ the man kept blabbering, trying to bargain himself out of this mess. Five inches of stainless steel flashed in the streetlight's glow and the man slumped, choking on his own blood. „Sorry to let you know I am Sherlock Holmes again," the detective sneered, standing over the gurgling man.

After dragging the body away and somehow fitting it into a nearby dumpster, Sherlock left at a quick pace. There would be a thunderstorm in exactly 47 minutes, nature would deal with cleaning up the crime scene. Sherlock hailed a taxi that was driving by him and let himself be taken to the port. At his destination, he got off, tossed the driver a bill and watched the taxi slowly disappear into the city centre again. When he was certain no one was around, Sherlock made his way to the lonely warehouse towering in the middle of a gravel and concrete field. He located the fire escape door and picked the lock, slipping inside with making as little noise as possible. Sherlock took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of coal and wooden crates stacked tens of metres high. The smell was repulsive, actually, but it cleared the detective's mind and allowed him to collect himself. After years of looking, an accidental clue had led him to Moran, Moriarty's sniper on the loose. It made his heart race, not the sense of danger, but the thought of killing the mercenary, preferably slowly. 'After all this is over, and everyone is safe, I can go home again', Sherlock thought, taking steady and silent steps into the open space that was the heart of the warehouse.

Sebastian Moran stood with his back to the detective stalking behind him. Sherlock instinctively adjusted his steps to meet those of an obese drug smuggler. It seemed to work as Moran impatiently tapped his foot, not even bothering to turn around. In a flash, Sherlock retrieved a pistol from his pocket. Smith & Wesson model 642, small but capable of leaving a clean hole through a thick mercenary skull. Sherlock's thundering heart in his chest was joined by slow mocking clapping. „Well done, you bloodhound, you," Moran's taunting voice sounded as the man turned, his silver steel eyes focused on Sherlock's, „I didn't expect a bit less."


	2. Turn of Events

The Crownless Again Shall Be King

Chapter 2 – Turn of Events

**Warning**: minor character death (minor as in "character not yet seen in TV series") MANY MORE DEATHS TO COME :D (shh, the genre says "angst" so I think it's okay)

**A/N**: Second chapter finally up. I'll put up some warnings as I go, eventually this fic will become M rated because of reasons (ew no not graphic gay sex what nO. (maybe a little but...) We're speaking of a lot of blood and gore and cursing that's worth an M rating.)

Sherlock and Sebastian held their ground and simply stared for what seemed to be forever. „You've changed since the last time I had you in the cross hairs," Moran broke the uncomfortable silence. He must have meant the time at the pool, years ago. Despite the absence of little red laser dots dancing around, Moran might have set up fellow snipers in the warehouse too as he expected the detective to show up. „I'll take that as a compliment," Sherlock replied, his voice unwavering although he could be on some soldier's sniper scope the very moment. „Weren't you supposed to be dead, by the way," the mercenary casually added, folding his hands behind his back. He seemed suspiciously calm for a man being held at gunpoint, but he might have been bluffing, of course. „I am more alive than ever before, thank you for your concern," Sherlock was slowly growing impatient, his index finger caressing the revolver trigger. It'd take him a second to have Moran's brains all over the concrete floor, but there was the mystery of this situation nagging at him. Why had leads to Moran appeared out of the blue? Why was Moran appointed to work with the Mafia? The way Moran looked happy with himself was beyond unnerving. He looked as if he had accomplished something tremendous and was with nothing left to lose.

„Before I put a bullet through your head, why did you have an appointment with Aleksei?" Sherlock decided to prod at the unsolved questions. Moran started pacing around in a circle, somewhat resembling a tiger in its narrow cage. A kind of a nervous tick, everyone betrays their emotions in a different way. „Sherlock, we're not in an interrogation room, try to have a conversation," Moran sneered, shooting a clever look at the detective. Stalling, for some reason. „Judging by your behavior I'd say you were expecting me, not your drug dealer friend. Care to enlighten me now, before I find out all the secrets you're keeping by observing your corpse?" Sherlock snapped, his voice harsh. One more witty comment out of that bastard's mouth and he'd have quite a few extra holes in his skull. The sniper broke his pacing pattern and stopped. „Oh have fun with that," he said, giving a casual shrug. There was something about the way he held his posture stiffly, the confident look in his eyes, everything was off, but in what way- then it dawned to Sherlock. Indeed, stalling. This moment had been planned ahead, carefully calculated. Somewhat like a kamikaze attack. Moran probably knew he was leaving the place in a body bag. But why all that? He was the last person on Sherlock's list, the last one of Moriarty's men. With Moran dead, everything would be finally over. Wouldn't it? The cogwheels were turning at inhuman speeds in Sherlock's mind and the detective knit his eyebrows together in concentration. What was he missing-

„You poor dull detective, not as brilliant with John by your side, hm?" Moran continued, a wide mocking grin on his face. He looked right down the barrel of Sherlock's revolver as he took a step closer. Frustrated with such comments, Sherlock flexed the muscles in his arm and braced himself to be splattered with the sniper's blood. The shot never sounded. „Oh," Sherlock arched his eyebrows, „So that's your play." An involuntary twitch passed through Sebastian's body. That only confirmed all six theories Sherlock had managed to pose. „You're trying to extend your grip back to London, aren't you? To kill John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson? To destroy the ones closest to me in order to completely break me down?" Sherlock asked, even though the answer was crystal clear. Sebastian nodded. „Why, though?" Sherlock continued, „Why strike just now when you had all those years?" Moran's lips twitched in a smirk. „We needed time. You know, Sherlock, you were always in the wrong places, always with the wrong people. But right now, everything's ready and you're all alone, in a city where you have no power, no friends, nothing and no one!" Sherlock shook his head, and replied, „You're wrong about that. I'll have my brother dearest arrest your men before their feet touch the ground of England." A cold and pitying laugh echoed throughout the building. „Wrong again, Sherlock. How can you stop someone who's already there?" Moran's voice raised in pitch, given his desperate situation. Sherlock gritted his teeth, letting out a growl. „I'll have them killed." „No you won't. You couldn't have them killed three years ago… and you can't now," Moran lowered his voice to a whisper that sent icy tremors down Sherlock's spine. „You can't possibly be referring to-„ „…Moriarty," Sebastian finished for him and a victorious grin spread across the sniper's features. The purest form of rage uncoiled within Sherlock and in a moment, the air smelled of gunpowder. Sherlock's lips twisted in a vicious smirk and he looked down at the dead soldier. The gun was still loaded. Soon, two more holes decorated Moran's chest.

As the feeling of rage diminished, something dawned to Sherlock. He tucked the revolver into his coat pocket and bolted outside. Moran had been stalling. Stalling what? Sherlock's eyes flicked to the starless foggy sky above him. Blinking lights of red and yellow made their ways across the city, descending, ascending. Airplanes. Hair at the back of his neck rose and suddenly, he felt chilled to the bone. Airplanes… There was no way Moran could have worked his way into the Mafia himself. There was no way Moran could have come up with a plan to catch Sherlock's attention himself. He was as dull as a brick and served as a puppet. And the mastermind had been pulling the strings all the time, again. Sherlock wondered which one of those planes Moriarty was on. Staring at the air traffic, he knew it'd be a matter of hours until Moriarty reached London. Moriarty would soon be in London, and Sherlock was still standing in a Moscow port, watching all his plans fail without his content.

Sherlock left the warehouse at a frantic pace. He was feeling slightly lightheaded from fatigue and the sudden turn of events. As he walked towards the city again, he took deep breaths of cold night air that helped him clear his mind. Before he knew, he had switched on to some autopilot mode to find the nearest hostel, so he let his thoughts race. First things first: Moriarty was alive and about to walk the streets of London again, which posed a great threat to everyone Sherlock had ever known. For three whole years, even Sherlock hadn't heard of the criminal mastermind. Holding such a low profile must have been difficult, he probably lost his status in the progress and now, after getting rid of all his previous allies, no strings attached, he can finally reassemble his criminal army and rise as the Napoleon of Crime once again. He would probably have some fresh competition in the criminal world, but to him, it wouldn't be a problem to get everyone in his way blown to bits in one evening. And there's nothing Sherlock could do, not while he was in Moscow, dead to the entire world. Moriarty's timing was perfect. Even if Sherlock resurfaced, showed everyone he was alive, who would believe a liar and fraud like him?

It amazed the detective how Moriarty had the wits to choose a time like this. Sherlock had recently run out of money – something that could be easily deduced since he was forced to live with a drug dealer for days. No money meant no help from locals, not a single plane ticket, no means of safe communication with the people he had left behind in England. Other than that, Sherlock was strategically placed as well. He was in Moscow, a place lacking in intelligent people, or intelligent people that would speak coherent English and be ready to help a madman claiming to be a detective. If he was to save all of England, he would first need assistance in order to get on the next plane to London. There was a high probability that Moriarty had the whole Mafia under his paw, that would mean strict surveillance on Sherlock and disposing of everyone who wanted to lend a hand to him. For some sick reasons, it seemed as if Moriarty just wanted to watch Sherlock suffer and eventually wither, not die a quick death. Moriarty's mind remained an enigma.

It nearly made Sherlock trip and fall when he bumped into a smaller figure walking down the same street as him. He never realized how fast steps he had been taking. „Sorry," he said before he could consciously switch over to Russian. The woman jumped away from him and dispersed him with pepper spray. This made Sherlock topple over, hitting the concrete with his knees, spluttering and coughing. He raised his hand in a gesture to fend off the attack, but it resulted in him getting kicked in the stomach with an extremely pointy shoe. „Stop!" Sherlock managed, as he rolled over on the street, covering his face with his hands. He heard the clicking of high heels as the lady tip toed around him, finally bending over and helping him up. „Oh my god, a Londoner! What is a bloke like you doing on the streets of Moscow at night?! I took you for some bloody rapist! Are you alright?" she reached out for his arm in worry, steadying the detective as he rubbed his eyes. „How did you know I was a Londoner?" Sherlock asked, squinting at the woman. As his vision became less blurry, he made out her features. The street light above them made her ashen blonde hair gleam, looking beautiful next to her pale skin. Her blue eyes blinked at him. There was something about her that made Sherlock's heart skip a beat, but his hazy mind couldn't place the reason. She smiled in relief. „You might not have noticed, but you are wearing a Belstaff coat. Limited edition, everyone was crazy for those a few years back," she answered. Sherlock arched his eyebrows in confusion. „I study fashion and clothes design in Moscow," she said. That explained her observation skills. Fashionistas like her rarely miss a detail on clothes. Sherlock decided that she would make a brilliant friend.

**A/N: **okay there WILL be a HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGE time gap between all the chapters due to my awful schedule! Reviews much appreciated. Please point out mistakes :) Love ya all for reading! xoxo


	3. The Londoner is in Play

Chapter 3 - The Londoner is in Play

**A/N**: Okay, loves, third chapter up surprisingly soon! We get more of our mystery person, yay (I really like her). No warnings apply to this, maybe just Sherlock being OOC, hell if I know how to write a proper Sherlock. Try to enjoy, and feedback is very much appreciated!

Sherlock and the lady had been walking down the street for a couple of minutes, in complete silence. „So, where are you heading?" she asked after some time. „Nowhere, what about you?" Sherlock responded. He couldn't say he was about to run to the airport, hijack a plane and fly to save England, right? He earned a suspecting look from her, but she didn't make a fuss. „I thought about jumping through a nearby bar on my way home. University and working as a part-time flight attendant can make a girl frustrated. I reckoned a few pints couldn't hurt." The words registered in Sherlock's head. Flight attendant! She could prove to be of great use. „Please, could I ask for a fav-„ Sherlock's words were cut off by a boom of lightning. The storm he predicted would come in approximately 47 minutes was a bit late. The sky darkened, thick clouds of blue and black swimming across the sky, obscuring the view of air traffic lines and the few stars that shone. The woman directed her gaze up towards the threads of light flashing between the clouds. The deafening cracks came a few seconds later. For a while, it went silent and then the rain began. The first little drops caught in her eyelashes and she blinked them away. Sherlock found himself staring. He swallowed down the weird constricting feeling in his throat and placed his gloved hand on the woman's shoulder. „We have to get inside, now," he said. Not a moment later, rain was pouring down and the two of them were running down the street, towards a flashing neon light reading „24h BAR".

It wasn't more than a 100 metre sprint towards the bar door, but by the time they rushed inside, they were both soaking wet. Sherlock smoothed his wet hair back, trying to catch his breath. Running in the rain with someone completely unfamiliar was strange, but the detective found himself smiling. The woman was laughing whole-heartedly despite the odd situation. „Never did I prepare myself to have a late night jog with a stranger," she said, brushing water droplets off the red leather jacket she was wearing. Her high heels had splashed her black jeans with muddy water, but she didn't seem to care. „Oh, I always prepare myself for strange things to happen," Sherlock replied, and she chuckled, smiling at him. They looked at each other for a few seconds, as if to take in all the information about the other, until the woman finally averted her eyes and headed towards a table in a corner, gesturing Sherlock to go along.

After removing his damp coat and relaxing into a comfortable chair, Sherlock had to admit the bar was pleasant. Well, as pleasant as a place can get when you know your friends, countries away, are in imminent danger. The room was alive with the chatter of slightly tipsy couples and flooded with dim, warm light. The walls were covered with fine black oak and overall, the place had a colour scheme of dark red, black and chocolate brown. Sherlock and the woman fitted in perfectly with their clothes matching the surroundings. Sitting behind a little table, having the first round of drinks, was a great way to bring up the favour he needed to ask. The lady had offered to pay for the drinks, and after an argument whether it's adequate for a woman to buy drinks, Sherlock surrendered with the terrifying realisation that he didn't have a single penny to spare. Sherlock downed his whiskey in one gulp, without even blinking, and was now looking at the woman sitting opposite to him, slowly sipping from her glass.

Hands steepled under his chin, Sherlock was beginning to patch together the woman's entire life story. The further he went into the details, the more parallels he could draw between- „Hey, hey, hey, my eyes are up here!" she suddenly broke the silence. Sherlock's eyes snapped up from her chest. He had paused to look at the pendant she was wearing, partly hidden under her magneta V-neck shirt. „I'm sorry, I kind of drifted off for a second," he apologised, sitting straight in his chair again as he became conscious of the fact he'd been leaning forwards all the time, going over every detail about her. „Yeah, drifted off for 30 whole seconds while looking down my shirt," she smirked, finished her scotch and her fingers started circling the rim of the empty glass. She licked her lips and gave Sherlock an unmistakably flirty look. Sherlock felt a cold dire weight settle in his stomach. For God's sake, she had an engagement ring on the same finger that was now playing with a lock of her blonde hair. „Please excuse me for a moment," Sherlock said, getting up and heading for the men's restroom.

Sherlock quickly ducked into the restroom, glad to find it empty. His hands went to the edge of a sink built into a counter. He took a deep breath and looked into the mirror. A strange man looked right back at him: blonde damp hair curling up at peculiar angles, icy blue piercing eyes and hollow cheeks to match the dark circles under his eyes. There wasn't much of Sherlock Holmes left, instead there was a man who had been reshaped in a three year course of escaping, hiding and murdering. Sherlock opened the cold water tap and splashed his face with water, leaving small wet marks on his white button-up shirt. He knew his top one priority was to get on a plane and leave as soon as possible, but his only free pass on board an airplane was interested in a one night stand with him. He would have dwelled on the matter longer, but something buzzed in the pocket of his jeans. His long forgotten phone was begging for attention again. He always had it with him, charged and with a few extra SIM cards, in case of an emergency. Sherlock pulled the Blackberry out of his pocket and opened the new text message. It was from an unknown number, since the only contact he had kept was Mycroft's, who had the vague idea he could be alive. „Hello, Sherlock," the text read, and it instantly had the detective on edge. He had never given his real name to anyone, ever. The text continued: „I know you killed Moran. You weren't supposed to, but he forgot his gun with me. I'll be in London soon. I just can't choose who to use all his 12 bullets on, because you don't have so many friends. Maybe I'll just shoot John twice. Xx Moriarty". Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. That was a direct threat towards John, a death threat, and Moriarty was known for turning all his threatenings into reality.

It was an ultimatum. Sherlock could either play along like Moriarty wanted – going to London and probably seeing all his friends killed, and later being shot himself, in midst of some witty plan of Moriarty's. That, or he could keep running, but live with the knowledge everyone he cared about would end up dead one way or the other. None of the people back at London probably knew Moriarty was soon to arrive. Sherlock was torn between his two choices as he stared down at his mobile. He discarded the message with a scoff and swiftly dialled his brother's number. The call was answered almost immediately and Sherlock smiled to himself. „Brother, dear," he stated, „I'm coming over for tea." And he could hear Mycroft drop his silver cake spoon.


	4. The Runaway Detective

Chapter 4 - The Runaway Detective

**A/N**: FINALLY I finished this chapter in the middle of the night! There will probably be mistakes, feel free to point them out and I'll take care of them. If you like this story, please please let me know! Love you all! Rating going up for future chaps, random people dying and dirty words! ;D

Sherlock and Mycroft didn't exchange a word more, the detective simply ended the call, disassembled his phone in case his number would be tracked, and made his way out of the restroom. He had a lot of explaining to do. „Oh, what took you so long?" the woman greeted Sherlock as he slipped into his chair again. He let his eyes swiftly run over her, and he noticed she was slightly flustered. Perhaps because there were two new, and also empty martini glasses next to her. There was a sweet smile playing on her lips, so she was still sober enough to concentrate on her goal of seducing the detective. „Look, I need your help," Sherlock started, and the woman immediately leaned in his direction to catch his every word, „You're a flight attendant, you know your way around planes, and I can tell by the state of your palms you've been taking quite many flying lessons per week. Ambitious, aren't you? I need you to take me to the airport, and right now." Sherlock's straightforwardness seemed to take her aback, as her brows furrowed in suspicion and she moved an inch back. „Are you going to take me outside and rape me or something? Did you slip something into my drink? No, actually, who the hell are you anyway?" she asked, suddenly demanding and surprisingly aware of the fact she'd been hitting on a complete stranger. Sherlock sighed – he should have expected such questions, even though there was no time to explain and get the main idea across. „I haven't been completely honest with you, but I think there's something you need to know," Sherlock said. He needed to get her to trust him, even if that meant making up shabby lies. „Actually, I-„  
Sherlock had finished the sentence, but it was as if all sound around him had suddenly been cut off. Before he could process what was happening, he realised he was on the floor, among scattered glass shards. His vision was slightly blurred, but he saw a figure running over to him and quickly helping him up. His sense of hearing returned soon after, and he caught the worried voice of the woman accompanying him: „Oi, do you hear me? Can you stand?" He felt her drag him up, swing his one arm over her shoulder and keep him steady against her small frame. She was surprisingly strong for a woman her size. As they stumbled around the table and chairs that had fallen over, in order to retrieve Sherlock's coat and her purse, other sounds started to fade in as well. The sound of numerous men yelling something in Russian made Sherlock's temples throb with sharp pain. „Bloody hell, someone threw in grenades," the woman muttered, as she helped Sherlock down to crouch behind the table. „Looks like you took the worst blow. Holy hell…" her voice wavered and she peeked at the scene unfolding in the bar's lobby. The elderly barman, joined by three male customers seemed to be physically fine and were now up against two young bald men dressed in black baggy clothes. The two younger men had retrieved knives from their pockets and were threatening to use force against the barman and his friends, if they wouldn't let them though. „Give us Sherlock and we will not hurt anybody," they commanded roughly, holding out their blades to the few people who were tightly pressed into a corner of the room, snivelling and rambling. The barman tried to reason with them, but he was fended off with a simple step forward.  
Sherlock's mind was spinning. Obviously, Moriarty wasn't making this easy for him. The detective refuse to give up, to give up on London, John, and Lestrade. He reached out for his coat and pulled it from the chair it had been placed on. His revolver slid out of the pocket and his hand closed around it. „Bloody hell, what's going on?! Are you in a Mafia war with them or something? Are we going to be killed?" the woman hissed, exasperated and anxious all at once. „No. Now shut up," Sherlock firmly shut her up and pushed her behind him. He collected himself, and then, with no warning, bolted up from his cover. „You want me? Come and get me, you bloody fuckers."  
The first knife missed Sherlock's shirt sleeve by a millimetre. The second one was sent flying in his direction soon after, but luckily, it also failed to hit and was buried into the wall behind him, next to the other knife. The two assassins let out vicious growls and shoved the shivering barman aside, rushing towards Sherlock. The detective raised his gun in their direction, but instead of stopping, the men ducked, rolled forward and bolted up, taking a leap in Sherlock's direction. Shocked, Sherlock fired thrice, but his poor condition wasn't helping him aim. His reflexes nearly failed him, as he dashed backwards, before one of the men got the opportunity to hit him in the face. „Get down!" a shriek filled the room, and left Sherlock's ears pounding.  
Sherlock quickly stooped down, covering his head with his hands. In a second, there was the sound of solid wood and flesh colliding, and one of the men followed Sherlock suit, onto the floor. Blood was gushing from his mouth and he appeared unconscious. The detective's eyes widened and he caught a glimpse of black stockings and a magneta shirt, as the woman jumped over him with a fierce battle cry. Sherlock fetched his gun and stood up on his wobbly legs. The woman, wielding a chair that was missing one leg, was swinging the wooden object in the direction of the remaining assassin. She was clearly running on adrenaline, taking menacing skips towards the alarmed man. The man seemed to be overwhelmed with confusion, forgetting the gun holstered on his thigh, as he backed away and almost stumbled over a chair. Sherlock was done wasting time. He took a deep breath, aimed, exhaled, and fired. The man fell to the ground, a bullet through his side. „That's fucking right, you bloody wanker," the woman cussed between heavy breaths. She set the chair down, which stubbornly tilted askew, brushed blonde curls out of her face, and turned to face Sherlock. Both of them had sheepish grins on their faces and both of them looked equally mortified and relieved.  
„We need to get out of here, right?" the woman asked, standing next to a still wobbly Sherlock and watching all the bar's customers regain courage to talk and move, taking out their phones and calling the police or the ambulance. „Yes. We are taking the back door. Let's move," Sherlock confirmed, sliding his dusty coat on, pocketing his revolver. He turned to head for the extra exit, when the lady reached out for his arm. She held onto his hand tightly and he gave her a concerned look. „My legs ache like hell, I don't want to put too much pressure on them," she said apologetically. Sherlock looked down at her torn stockings and shoes that were now missing their high heels. Shrapnel from the explosions had left little shallow wounds on her calves and her knees were bruised. „It's fine, we're both equivalently hurt," Sherlock dismissed the topic and they entwined their fingers and limped towards the exit.  
She was bombarding him with all sorts of questions while they were walking away from the bar as fast as they could. She walked faster without high heels and they were moving towards the local airport at an acceptable speed. „Did you know those men? Why were they after you? What kind of a name is Sherlock, anyway?" Sherlock squeezed her hand tightly and she stopped rambling. Sherlock knew he had to tell her the truth sooner or later, and it was best to have her up to date with Sherlock's actions now, rather than later, when she was caught in this web of Moriarty's. „I didn't know the assassins, but I know the man who sent them after me. A criminal mastermind, to be precise. I've caused a lot of trouble for the Napoleon of Crime lately, and he isn't pleased, to say the least. It's kind of a constant battle of survival between me and him, but now he went one step further and is about to kill all my friends if I don't stop him in time. If you think I'm selfish – read to take such desperate measures to help my friends, then you should know, that if that madman regains power, he will wreak havoc across the whole world, potentially rousing an international political crisis – he loves those." He woman let out a wheezy laugh and pulled Sherlock with her, down the street to their right. „You talk like you know that madman very well," she answered, picking up her pace, „We aren't far from the airport, it's the huge bulky building right ahead." Sherlock squinted, and in the darkness of early morning hours, he made out the silhouette of a massive concrete and glass cube.  
„Alright, we're here. I wasn't supposed to turn up today for work, but the security always lets me slide, I come to work at the weirdest times," the lady explained, entering the airport through the workers' door. Sherlock followed her quietly and closed the door after them. They walked down a corridor, until they reached the personnel room. „Come on," she whispered to Sherlock, unlocking the door with a key from her bag, and slipping inside. The room for employees was moderately spacy and cozy. There were a few armchairs, coffee tables, and one door that lead to the restrooms and employees' lockers. The woman effortlessly located her locker, retrieved her uniform and entered the ladies' restroom. It was a routine she carried out daily, if not more than once a day. Sherlock waited, looking around, for less than a minute, until she finally emerged from the restroom, nicely dressed in a well fitting pale coloured uniform. „Alright, let's go, hero. You better save the world or something," she chuckled, throwing her over clothes into her depository and locking it. Sherlock noticed round plasters on her legs, neatly covered by skin coloured tights. It seemed as if she was equipped for the end of the world, every single day. „Do you have ibuprofen?" Sherlock asked as they walked down another grey hallway. „Sure, knock yourself out," she replied, handing him a packet of white pills from her bag that she still had with her. Sherlock smirked and accepted the medicine, swallowing it dry. Not a moment later, a coke bottle was thrusted into his hand. „Don't take pills without water," she cautioned, and opened a door they had reached. The door read 'Maintenance'.  
Sherlock found himself in a room full of computer screens and different radars. „Yeah, 'maintenance' doesn't really describe this hub. It's actually where they placed the security squad – after renovating we ran out of space. Nifty, huh?" she asked, beaming with satisfaction. Sherlock's hands went up to grab his head. „No, I don't think you understand," he started, but was cut off. „Now, we have the best gear here. If you're looking for a madman in an airport, you should be able to locate him. We can also trace flights and we catalogue the planes that take off and arrive. When I say „we", I mean the attendants, because the security guards are practically never here-„ Sherlock rubbed his temples, gritting his teeth. „No, no, no," he interrupted the woman, his voice growing louder with his swelling desperation, „When I say „airport", I mean I need to hijack a plane. I need YOU so I can hijack a plane. Can you hijack a plane? I REALLY, really need a plane, right about now, at this very moment!" The woman looked at him, dumbfounded. „Whoa, hold on a second. I'm not authorised to do that," she replied, fiddling her name tag between her fingers, attaching it to her chest and re-angling it again. She looked down at her feet and let out a huff. „I have to go help everyone," Sherlock explained, stopping her hands from going to undo the pin again by taking a hold of them. „Just improvise. Tell the security you're taking a test flight. You take flying lessons here, right?" Sherlock muttered, trying to change her mind. „I do, but I'm not allowed to board a plane by myself," she said, avoiding Sherlock's gaze, „And… god damn it, I forgot my necklace on. We're not allowed to wear accessories. Can you hold it for me?" she trailed off, removing her pendant, handing it to Sherlock who held his palm out. The warm metal touched Sherlock's hand and he observed the accessory closer. His heart fluttered and he let out a sharp gasp, his hand beginning to shake. „What is it, what's wrong?" the woman helped him steady himself yet again, „Did you get a concussion back there?" her voice sounded distant to the detective whose heartbeat was thundering in his ears. Sherlock's eyes focused on the nametag she had successfully pinned to her chest. 'Harriet'. Harriet. And the necklace wasn't a necklace after all, but two little metal plates attached to a fine golden chain. Dog tags that had 'J. H. Watson' written on them. „Harry, I think we're going to go and save your brother," Sherlock managed, and he saw all the colour drain from Harriet's face.


End file.
